—“REMEMBER ME,” STAR BECK
ALBUM: NOT YET RECORDED
 (STAR’S PRIVATE COLLECTION)

Chapter 9

I take a quick shower, although the water temperature doesn’t go any higher than frigid. I still feel a bit gross as I wrap myself in a tattered towel, but at least I manage to shake the angry feelings I had after the radio call-in.

I put on jeans, a faded Rolling Stones T-shirt and my flip-flops, dab on some concealer to cover the pimple that seems to have materialized on my chin overnight and follow up with some mascara and a swipe of lipstick. Then I slip my glasses on and comb my damp hair back into the Dodgers cap.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the daylight after I step outside, but when they do, the first thing I notice is the sign in the window of the restaurant next door: BREAKFAST SERVED. I take a deep breath, and an enticingly sweet mixture of bacon, eggs, pancakes and frying grease wafts into my nose. I close the motel room door behind me and cross the parking lot to the restaurant.

Seems like as good a place as any to start my life as a normal Florida girl, right?

The building is painted in faded red, white and green stripes, and a matching canopy hangs over the front entrance. A big signs outside says D’ANGELO’S RISTORANTE in big cursive letters. The parking lot is nearly empty, and as I step through the glass front door, I hear a little chime announcing my arrival.

“Sit anywhere you like!” says the woman who pokes her dark-haired head out from the kitchen just long enough to take a quick look at me. “I’ll be with you in a sec!” she adds as her head disappears again.

I look around the restaurant and realize that I’m practically the only person here. The only other customer is a dark-haired guy in a booth against the wall. He’s bent over what appears to be a textbook, and I can only see the top of his head as he studies it. There’s a steaming mug of coffee beside him.

My heart’s pounding. This is it. I’m finally entering my first day in my new home in my new world. I can’t screw it up. But what if someone recognizes me? What if I act jittery, like at Mel’s Diner? I close my eyes for a moment.

“Be calm,” I murmur, realizing that closing my eyes in the entryway to a restaurant probably already qualifies as acting weird. Okay then. I open my eyes and square my shoulders. Just be normal. No one’s looking for you. Everyone thinks you’re in rehab in New York.